Half of a Yellow Sun

Kainene laughed when Richard told her about Harrison’s beets. Then she touched his arm and said, “Don’t worry, if he put the manuscript in a box, it will be safe from termites.” She slipped out of her work clothes and stretched languorously, and he admired the lean grace of her arched back. Desire reeled inside him, but he would wait for evening, after dinner, after they had entertained any guests, after Ikejide had retired. They would go out to the veranda and he would push the table aside and spread out the soft rug and lie on his naked back. When she climbed astride, he would hold her hips and stare up at the night sky and, for those moments, be sure of the meaning of bliss. It was their new ritual since the war started, the only reason he was grateful for the war.

“Colin Williamson stopped by my office today,” Kainene said.

“I didn’t know he was back,” Richard said, and Colin’s sunburned face came to his mind, the flash of discolored teeth as he talked, too often, about how he left the BBC because his editors were supportive of Nigeria.

“He brought a letter from my mother,” Kainene said.

“From your mother!”

“She read his story in the Observer and contacted him to ask whether he would be returning to Biafra and would he deliver a letter to her daughter in Port Harcourt. She was surprised when he said he knew us.”

Richard loved the way she said us. “Are they all right?”

“Of course they are; nobody is bombing London. She says she has nightmares about Olanna and me dying, she’s saying prayers, and they’re involved with the Save Biafra Campaign in London—which must mean they sent a small donation.” Kainene paused and handed him an envelope. “She rather cleverly taped some British pounds into the inner lining of a card. Quite impressive. She sent one for Olanna too.”

He read the letter quickly. Regards to Richard was the only reference to him, at the bottom of the blue paper. He wanted to ask Kainene how she planned to deliver Olanna’s but he would not. Silence had enshrined the subject of Olanna with each month, each year, that passed without their bringing it up. When Kainene received the three letters Olanna had written since the war started, she had said nothing except that she received them. And she had not replied.

“I’ll send somebody to Umuahia next week to deliver Olanna’s,” Kainene said.

He gave the letter back to her. The silence was becoming curdled.

“The Nigerians won’t stop talking about Port Harcourt,” he said.

“They won’t take Port Harcourt. Our best battalion is here.” Kainene sounded casual enough, but there was a new wariness in her eyes, the same wariness she had when she told him, months ago, that she wanted to buy an uncompleted house in Orlu. She had said it was better to own property rather than cash but he suspected that, for her, it was a safety net in case Port Harcourt fell. For him, considering the fall of Port Harcourt was blasphemous. Every weekend, when they inspected the house to make sure her builders were not stealing the materials, he never spoke of their living there, as though to absolve himself from the blasphemy.

And he no longer wanted to travel. He wanted to guard Port Harcourt with his presence; as long as he was there, he felt, nothing would happen. But the public relations people in Europe had asked for an article about the airstrip in Uli, so he left reluctantly, very early in the morning, so he would be back before midday when Nigerian planes strafed vehicles driving on major roads. A wide bomb crater loomed ahead on Okigwe Road. The driver swerved to avoid it and Richard felt a familiar foreboding, but his thoughts lightened as they approached Uli. It was his first visit to Biafra’s only link to the outside world, this wonder of an airstrip where food and arms evaded Nigerian bombers. He climbed out of the car and looked at the strip of tarmac with thick bush on either side and thought of the people who did so much with so little. A tiny jet was parked at the far end. The morning sun was hot; three men were spreading palm fronds on the tarmac, working swiftly and sweating, pushing along large carts piled with fronds. Richard went over to say, “Well done, jisienu ike.”

An official came out of the unfinished terminal building nearby and shook Richard’s hand. “Don’t write too much, oh! Don’t give away our secrets,” he joked.

“Of course not,” Richard said. “Can I interview you?”

The man beamed and flexed his shoulders and said, “Well, I am in charge of customs and immigration.” Richard hid a smile; people always felt important when he asked for an interview. They talked standing by the tarmac, and shortly after the man returned to the building, a tall fair-haired man walked out. Richard recognized him: Count Von Rosen. He looked older than in the picture Richard had seen, closer to seventy than sixty, but his was an elegant aging; his strides were long and his chin firm.

“They told me you were out here and I thought I’d say hello,” he said, his handshake as unwavering as his green eyes. “I’ve just read your excellent article on the Biafran Boys Brigade.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Count Von Rosen,” Richard said. And it was a pleasure. Ever since he read about this Swedish aristocrat who bombed Nigerian targets with his own small plane, he had wanted to meet him.

“Remarkable men,” the count said, glancing at the workers who were making sure that, from above, the black stretch of tarmac would look like bush. “Remarkable country.”

“Yes,” Richard said.

“Do you like cheese?” the count asked.

“Cheese? Yes. Yes, of course.”

The count dug into his pocket and brought out a small packet. “Excellent cheddar.”

Richard took it and tried to shield his surprise. “Thank you.”

The count fumbled in his pocket again and Richard worried that he might be bringing out more cheese. But he pulled out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. “I’m told your wife is a wealthy Igbo, one of those who stayed back to fight for the cause.”

Richard had never thought about it like that, Kainene staying back to fight for the cause, but he was pleased that the count had been told this and told also that he and Kainene were married. He felt a sudden fierce pride for Kainene. “Yes. She’s an extraordinary woman.”

There was a pause. The intimacy of the cheese present required a reciprocating gesture, so Richard opened his diary and showed the count first a photo of Kainene, taken by the pool with a cigarette between her lips, and then the photo of the roped pot.

“I fell in love with Igbo-Ukwu art and then fell in love with her,” he said.

“Beautiful, both,” the count said, before he took his sunglasses off to examine the photos.